


show me how you make a vow

by swingsetjunkie



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Car Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, Handcuffs, Kinda, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, right to the point with this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 02:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swingsetjunkie/pseuds/swingsetjunkie
Summary: good old-fashioned car exhibitionism, kinda.





	show me how you make a vow

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so fuckign sorry lmao

His hands bruise your hips, your thighs, the curve of your ankles; dapples of purple scatter under your chin, behind your ear, and he is _nowhere_ near done with you. Handcuffs bite unforgivingly into your wrists, pinning them behind you; you can barely feel your arms, you've been cuffed so long, but you can't focus on that now. He cups a breast, sucks kisses along your hipbone, breathes hot and wet against the tender skin of your inner thigh, and it's not enough, not enough-

When he finally, finally puts his mouth on you, it jolts you like a bolt of lightning, like a revelation, something that belongs in a place holier than the back of a squad car. He's good at this, just like he's good at everything else- his mouth is wet, and warm, and his tongue is hot like a brand against your skin. "Please," you whimper, though you're not quite sure what you're asking for- more? You'd shatter, broken- but that's human nature, to take, and take, and take, and something inside you keens, ever-hungry. "Connor, please,"

He traces a hand down your leg, grips your calf to throw it over his shoulder, and all the while his eyes bore into yours, pupils blown large, LED flickering yellow, then red, then yellow, and you think- you know- that he's going to be the death of you. Your other leg is drawn up and over, and you dig your heels into his lower back, trying to find traction, but he moves with you, predicts everything you try with frustrating ease. You're too weak to put up much of a fight, anyway, but this is- this is torture.

A feather-light touch of his tongue against your clit has you gasping, cringing into yourself- too much, too sensitive, after orgasming so many times- and his fingers smear whatever his saliva is made out of down, down, until he's pressing into you, stroking in and out, drawing the breath from your lungs with each slight pause he does when his fingers are completely buried in you, deep and almost enough, almost.

He pulls off of you, lips greasy and shiny, and says, voice hoarse and wrecked, "Beg." He punctuates the word with another thrust, two fingers buried deep, and when you bite your lip instead he presses in a third, curls inside to the knuckle. "Beg me for it, and I will." When you say nothing, his hand stills, pressed snug against you, and waits.

You buck against him, trying to find purchase to thrust down, rub yourself against his palm, but his other hand slides under your lower back to _lift_ , leaving you resting on the backseat on your upper back, knees almost touching the ceiling of the car as he adjusts his position. His fingers withdraw with a slick, dirty sound- and you cry out at the loss, spasming- and he presses his clothed hips against your core, crushes the bulge of his dick against you. Grinds there, hair flopping into his face as he moans, and God, _God_ , what is pride in the face of that?

"Connor, please, please-"

He leans forward, presses an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. Moves up. "Tell me what you want," he says, lips tracing the shell of your ear; his tongue darts out, warm and wet and spine-shiveringly gentle, and you could scream, you could, but-

"Fuck," you hiss instead, and he shudders against you. "Fuck me, I want it, _please_ ,"

He moans, grinds against you harder, and you feel one of his hands shift, hear the clink of his belt as he slides it off, unzipping. Connor's dick is hot, tinged thirium-blue, and he gently, gently parts you, spits dirty and perfect into his palm and slicks his hand down the length. "Tell me again," he says, and holds himself right at the precipice, teasing.

"Connor, you fucking- God- please," you choke out, and it feels more like a sob than words; you feel coiled tight, a gun ready to fire, potential energy ready to burst to life, and surely there's nothing more torturous than this, body already pleasured beyond the point of pain and _still_ begging for more. "Fuck me, you fucking-"

He buries himself to the hilt on one vicious thrust, jerks you in and down to seat him completely; you let out a wail as he does it again, again, thrusts sure and deep and _perfect_. You tilt your chin up, claim his mouth with yours, gasp into him when he withdraws only to fuck back in, slamming you against the seat over and over and over-

It's too much, on top of everything, and you scream as you come, jerking and over-sensitive and drooling. The taste of ozone fills your mouth, and copper, and you realize you've bitten both your lips and his, and he's still thrusting, slamming you into the leather over and over. "One more time," he huffs, "one more, you can do it," and if you didn't think he was insane before, you do now, shaking and incoherent and bent nearly in two, but you're helpless to resist.

He doesn't gentle his thrusts as tears start leaking from your eyes, simply presses a kiss to your bloodied mouth, reaches around to snap the handcuffs apart. Your arms scream as you move them, blood-deprived nerves singing, but you bury your fingers in his hair anyway, drag him closer and rake your fingers down his back, blunt nails against his vest, and fuck, he's still clothed, he's fucking you in his squad car, in the garage at DPD, and anyone could see- anyone could be watching-

You come again, keening, gaze darkening, and the last thing you feel before you black out his him spilling deep inside you, his breath hot in your ear as he swears, guttural and hoarse.

 

Consciousness comes back in pieces, sensation filtering through grey haze; warmth, comfort, a blanket wrapped securely around you-

You sit bolt upright, and are intensely grateful you're not in the squad car when you do; vertigo sends you reeling, and your back is _on fire_ , arms numb-

"Easy, easy," Connor's voice is quiet, almost apologetic, and you turn your focus on him, vision bleary. "Good. You were so good for me," he says, sending a thrill of pleasure up your spine. Despite the pain, you feel...satiated. Incredibly satisfied. And, as his hands card through your hair, a little bit delicate, wanted, cherished.

"I called you in to work. Hank's covering."

While that's slightly mortifying, the prospect of not having to move has you smiling sleepily, pressing your head into his hand. "Hold me?" you ask, and Connor smiles, slides in to bed next to you. Shapes your body against his, warm and perfect. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his clean sandalwood-and-spice scent, and if you fall asleep again-

Well, no one can really blame you.


End file.
